


The Third Idea

by cagestark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Chastity Device, Daddy Kink, Edging, Just for Peter, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Peter is an adult, Sex Toys, Subspace, Tony Stark Makes Sex Toys, cockcage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 12:22:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20546093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagestark/pseuds/cagestark
Summary: Tony walks in on Peter jerking off twice in one week, and realizes that his lover needs a little more from him. So he gives him less; a week without cumming should do it.





	The Third Idea

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in nearly one sitting please have mercy

Tony walks in on Peter jerking off twice in one week.

The first time it happens, he steps out of the bedroom and closes the door. By then, it is too late for him to go unnoticed: Peter’s embarrassed, shocked face is emblazoned in Tony’s mind (including the red, weeping cock being brutally stripped in Peter’s slickened hand), but it doesn’t mean he has to stay and gawk. He goes to the other end of the penthouse and busies himself. If Peter had wanted assistance, he would have asked for it.

As it is, Peter appears a few minutes later, flushed with more than just embarrassment. Considering he isn’t pitching a tent in his sweatpants, Tony figures it is safe to say that he managed to cum after Tony made a hasty retreat.

“Sorry,” Peter says, rubbing at the back of his neck with the same had he was using to jerk off. “You’re home a little early.”

That makes Tony narrow his eyes—because he really _isn’t_ home very early. Maybe a few minutes at most. Peter (though he is apt to forget about the existence of time when working on a project or homework or watching all the Star Wars movies in a row) usually has a keen sense of time when it comes to Tony’s comings and goings.

But the kid looks so genuinely embarrassed and apologetic—and he’s a fucking angel, with that face and those guileless eyes—that any ulterior motive burns up under the scrutiny of his piety. Tony brushes the incident aside and doesn’t think of it again.

Until the next time it happens.

Peter notices him instantly—because he has been keeping an eye on the door, and is that to make sure Tony _doesn’t_ catch him? Well, Tony thinks otherwise—his face burning. He gasps, mouth opening and closing like a fish. But this time, Tony does not leave. He takes up residence in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame, taking in the sight of the kid from head to toe: sweaty curls, flushed face, damp chest, leaking cock. He’s obviously been at it for a while, and with no orgasm?

Well. Not to take a shot at the kid’s self-control, but that’s not like Peter at all.

“What are you asking for?” Tony wonders out loud.

“Huh?” Peter asks. He reaches out for the sheet and uses it to cover himself—like it isn’t their bed they share together every night, like Tony hasn’t been seeing him naked daily since the younger man transferred to NYU and moved into the Tower. “What—”

“This play that you’re staging,” says Tony. “What’s the endgame?”

“Endgame? I don’t—”

“Keep touching yourself.”

Peter’s face gets redder, if such a thing is possible. The flush spread down his sharp jaw, the thin neck, and over the trim chest. Swallowing, Peter slowly reaches under the sheet and resumes jerking off. The movement of his arm is slow and languid, a direct contrast to his face which has the distinct look of a dog who has bitten off more than he could chew. Tony moves into the room, undoing his cuff links and rolling up his sleeves. Instead of helping, he sits on the edge of the bed, body turned to watch the show his young lover is putting on for him.

“What is it, baby? What do you want? Do you want daddy to get jealous of your own hand? You want Daddy to punish you? Are you not getting enough attention?”

Peter doesn’t answer, but his hand under the sheet moves faster. He closes his eyes, mouth parted, breaths coming in quick pants. Tony waits, but no denial comes. He knows then, that he has hit it on the head—or near it, at least.

And he’s always been quick thinking on his feet.

“Getting close, Pete?” The young man whines, head nodding. “Go ahead and cum when you’re ready. Make it good for yourself, sweetheart. Oh—_there_ you go—there. That’s it. That’s my sweet boy, ride it out, fuck your fist honey. Make it last. Because _that’s the last time you’re going to cum for the whole week.”_

-

Peter is hard.

He’s watching Netflix, Clone Wars.

The two things aren’t related, no matter how attractive animated Anakin Skywalker is. He stares at the television, unseeing, too focused on the soft pulsing in his cock. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since he last came, since Tony broke the news to him that for the next week, they’d be playing with edging and orgasm denial.

“Make it two weeks, daddy,” Peter pleads soft. He’s deep under, sitting on the floor at Tony’s feet while the older man is still perched on the bed. Tony’s fingers in his hair grounds him, lulls him into that soft, fuzzy place that he goes to when Tony does more than top—when he doms. “I’ve been bad; I need two weeks.”

Tony hums. “I know what you need. One week.”

Peter had been convinced that one week wasn’t enough; hell, when he was in the dorm at NYU during the semester, he’d go a week or two with no orgasms. The stress alone could wilt even the stiffest erection. These seven days would be a baby step, an unfortunate interlude, the tutorial in a video game until Tony saw that Peter could take more. That he needed more.

If only he could button mash and skip the tutorial already.

So he had thought.

But then here he is, hard, (not) watching Clone Wars. Ned’s been bugging him to catch up to him so they can talk plot, and Peter was sure that his summer break would be the perfect time to do that. For some reason, he just can’t focus.

Before Tony left for work, he had bent over the bed and giving Peter a searing kiss, morning-breath be damned, sucking Peter’s tongue into his mouth to give him a taste of toothpaste and mouthwash. Half asleep, Peter reached out with needy hands, grabbing the lapels of Tony’s suit and trying to drag him back into bed. Tony had just chuckled—a warm sound that vibrating through Peter’s chest—and dropped a chaste kiss on his forehead.

“Have a good day, Pete,” Tony says softly. Then his face changes, grows firmer in expression: “Absolutely no touching for pleasure today, unless I tell you to. Understood?”

“Yessir,” Peter had whispered.

The morning had gone swiftly (considering Peter had slept through it). When he awoke at eleven, he was a little hard—just a physiological response. He reached down to palm himself for a moment before drawing away like he’d been burned. Tony said no touching. Instead, Peter had gotten up, done his usual morning routine, eaten a bowl of cereal at the island and then planted himself in front of the television to text Ned that yes, he was finally going to catch up on Clone Wars.

At noon, Tony texts him.

**Busy?**

**Netflix n chilling**

**I hope not**

**Just a metaphor :)**

**Alone?**

**Yes**

**Take your cock out.**

Peter swallows. He rereads the text half a dozen times before convincing himself that no, he hasn’t had a stroke, that’s really what the text says. Another one comes through while Peter gapes, an impatient prodding: **Well, baby?**

Face red, Peter sits the phone beside him on the couch cushion, screen up and on in case Tony sends anymore messages. He reaches down to the sweatpants he had tugged on earlier that morning—and he’s hard. The touch of his own hand as he draws the sweatpants down makes him exhale, long slow and shaky.

With one finger, he types out, **Done**.

**Edge, baby. Absolutely no finishing. Daddy is watching.**

Peter groans, head falling back against the couch cushions behind him. Tony must be watching via JARVIS. That just makes him harder, the head of his cock already beading with pre-cum and he hasn’t even started yet.

Steeling himself with a deep breath, he reaches down and wraps a hand around his shaft. Too dry—he spits in his palm and then starts again. Much better, slick and already hot. He sighs, starting slow. Tony edges him for thirty minutes at a time, and he glances over to his phone to check the clock only to see that Tony has sent another message: **Good boy.**

Whining, Peter tightens his finger. Every time he draws it off his cock, he rubs his palm over the smooth, wet head, shivering at how sensitive it is. Another hand drifts down, lifting his balls so he can rub the pad of his thumb right behind them and oh, oh he’s close. He relaxes his pelvis, slows his breathing but not his hand. He can get closer, he knows he can. There are noises coming from him, rasping breaths. Closer—just another few thrusts and he pulls his hands away, digging his heels into the floor even as his hips thrust up to chase a touch that is no longer there. His cock twitches, and if he were to tense his pelvic floor, he could probably cum without a touch, he’s so close. But he doesn’t. The phone next to him says he’s a good boy.

Slowly, he comes down, orgasm receding even though the ache in his balls has intensified.

When he glances down, the phone says that only six minutes have passed.

For the first time, Peter thinks it’s going to be a very long week.

-

“Check in with me,” demands Tony while they brush their teeth. The en suite bathroom has two sinks (which Peter has never seen before in his life); he likes the domesticity, watching their images in the mirror, minty foam around their mouths. “How are you feeling about the play we’re doing?”

Just the mention of it has his cock tingling, threatening to fill. Today was difficult, but it’s barely been a single day. “I feel good,” he says. It’s not a lie, at least. “I mean, I don’t feel good. But I guess that’s the point, isn’t it?”

Tony spits into the sink. “If it gets to be too much, let me know right away. Even if I’m working. You know I always keep my phone on me, and if I’m not responding, JARVIS will do what it takes to get my attention.”

“Yessir,” Peter says. That’s not a lie either. He knows the importance of his safewords, and he knows that playing with Tony this way means that there has to be trust: trust that if he’s pushed too far, he’ll use them. “I love you, Tony.”

“I love you too, Pete.”

Once they are in bed, Peter rests his head in the cradle of Tony’s outstretched arm. At least he won’t have trouble not touching himself while he’s asleep, he thinks.

Which is why it’s so disorienting when he wakes. Surely they haven’t been sleeping long; Peter is still curled against Tony’s side, and they have yet to shift apart to their respective sides of the bed. His cock aches, hard and leaking where his hips are nestled against Tony’s side. His balls are full and throbbing, and Peter realizes that he must have been rubbing against Tony in his sleep, because he is close. Squeezing his eyes shut, he struggles to pull his hips away lest he cum. His fingers dig into Tony’s shirt, twisting in the fabric, desperate for some sort of grounding. He manages to relax himself, breathing deep, stepping back away from that pleasurable ledge—but then he remembers the dream that has him hard in the first place: he’d been acting like an intern, bringing Tony coffee during a meeting, when he’d spilled it all over the older man’s suit. Tony had ordered him to crawl beneath the table in front of everyone and rub off against his leg, and that’s where he’d been, curled up, head resting on the hard thigh, thrusting and thrusting and—

“What are you doing, Pete?” Tony asks softly.

Peter jumps. He’d slipped into the fantasy so easily that he’d forgotten where he was, forgotten that Tony was sleeping beside him. He is whining, long, desperate noises that he can’t stop. His hips are grinding, long and slow and hard against Tony’s firm side. He can feel the stickiness of precum soaking his boxers, and when he tilts his hips up, his sensitive balls rub against the man, so tender and aching—

“Peter,” says Tony firmly, pulling him again from his hazy lust. “You’re rutting against me. Stop.”

“C-can’t,” Peter whines, shaking. “Daddy, I can’t stop, I can’t, it’s so good—"

Tony doesn’t move, a hot, living statue. “Self-control, Peter. You’re breaking my rules right now. I know it feels good, but you need to stop yourself. Come on baby, I know you can.”

Tears fill Peter’s eyes. He shakes his head. When he stills his hips, it only lasts for a handful of moments before the thrusting begins again. He’s soaked, the friction rubbing himself raw, but it’s _so_ good—

“Daddy will help you, if you ask him to,” Tony says lowly. “But you’ve got to be strong and ask. Ask me, baby, and I’ll stop you.”

“_Noooo_,” Peter whines. Tears slip from his eyes. He’s so close, and he knows this is breaking the rules, but he can’t stop. Not when the pressure of his ever-moving hips has him right on the edge, and yeah Tony will be disappointed in him, but they can just start Peter’s seven days over. It’s really not a big deal.

Peter cries out when he cums, shooting wildly in his boxers. His balls throb, oversensitive from his day of edging without relief. He thrusts and thrusts, riding out the pleasure that has him gasping for air—

—and as it slowly slips away, the horror sets in. _Why_ did he do that? Tony is going to be so angry with him. Not cumming is the entire point of this week. It’s only been one fucking day! What did he think it’d be, easy?

Tony gets up without a word and goes into the bathroom. The silence deafens after the door clicks shut. Peter shivers, alone in the bed, tears clinging to his lashes. Suddenly Tony’s head appears in the doorway.

“I’m not angry,” he assures him. “I just need some time alone.”

The relief Peter feels makes his shoulders sag back onto the soft sheets. Tony is perfect, always remembering how sensitive Peter is to anger and isolation. He lays there, cum cooling in his boxers, waiting for his older lover to reappear.

When he does, Tony’s face is solemn. He sits on the edge of the bed and motions for Peter to crawl into his lap. It’s a little uncomfortable since he hasn’t cleaned up, but he wraps his arms around Tony’s neck and clings to him so he doesn’t have to see the disappointment in the older man’s eyes.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“For what?” Tony knows, but this is a part of it. He always makes Peter explain his feelings.

“I should have stopped.”

“It felt good, huh.”

Peter shrugs, eyes burning.

“It _didn’t_ feel good?”

“Doesn’t feel good _now_,” Peter explains.

Tony hums. “We’ve been playing like this for three years, Pete. I know you. I know that you feel good when you cum, but you feel best when you obey. Why don’t you trust that baby? Why does daddy have to teach you that lesson so many times?”

Peter pulls back, eyes wide as moons and glistening with tears. “Are you going to punish me?”

“Could you have stopped yourself? I won’t punish you for what your body does when you’re sleeping, kid. I won’t punish you for something you genuinely couldn’t control, either. So tell me: we’re you out of control?”

Peter’s face burns with shame and the stirring of low-level arousal. “I could have stopped, if I’d really wanted to. But it felt so, so _good_—!”

“Lay back, then.”

Peter crawls off of his lap and onto his stomach, smearing his belly with cum just beginning to dry. Gross. Tony rests a hand just below where his boxers end but then coaxes him over onto his back. Shivering and confused, Peter submits, rolling over. Punishments usually meant spanking, which Tony only ever did to Peter’s rear and thighs, those softer, fleshier places that could take more abuse.

“Boxers off.”

Peter slips his sticky boxers down. His cock is half-hard. He shivers, the air uncomfortably cool on his sticky erection. Beside him, Tony reaches into the nightstand for the lube and coats his hand.

“What are your safewords, baby?” He asks.

“Green for go on, yellow for slow down, red for stop everything.”

Tony’s face is very serious when he says, “Remember those. Okay?”

Then he reaches down and gently takes Peter’s erection into his wet hand. Peter groans, head pressing back into the pillow. _Oh_, he thinks, _this is his punishment: more edging. _But Tony doesn’t proceed in the slow, teasing way he usually edges Peter. He pulls out all the stops, twisting his hand, palming at the head, rubbing his thumb against the frenulum. It doesn’t take long before Peter’s hips are rising off the bed, eager to meet that hot, tight grip.

“We aren’t edging,” Tony says. “Cum whenever you want. This is all you want, right? To cum?”

Peter gapes, fingers gripping at the sheets. He stutters out what he thinks is a question, inarticulate and confused.

“Go ahead,” Tony says, solemnly. His face is downright grave, and even in spite of the incredible friction on his cock, Peter feels his emotional arousal fading rapidly, his eyes glued to Tony’s expression, the displeasure and apathy. “This isn’t what _I_ want. But that doesn’t matter to you, does it? You just care about cumming.”

Tears fill Peter’s eyes. He reaches down and pushes Tony’s hand away. “Stop,” he says.

“You remember your words?” Peter nods, face twisted in a pain that centers somewhere around his heart. “You know I need to hear those words to stop.”

The hand resumes. It feels good. It breaks his heart. The disappointed look on Tony’s face has the brimming tears overflowing, dripping down his temples and into his hair. It’s clear that Tony isn’t enjoying this—and Peter isn’t either, even if his cock is hard, even if the pressure builds in his balls. By the time he cums, he is sobbing, both hands pressed over his eyes. It is the worst orgasm of his life.

“I’m sorry,” he cries.

Tony gathers him up in his arms and pets at his hair while Peter soaks his shirt with tears. “I know you are, baby. I can see that.”

“You _hate_ me.”

“No,” Tony says firmly. “I love you, more than I love anything or anyone in this world.”

Peter sniffs. He knows that. He knows Tony loves him—it was just said in the heat of the moment. He’d just needed to hear how much Tony loved him. To remind himself. His next sentence is real, though, the fear making his stomach clench: “You’re disappointed in me.”

“I was disappointed in something you did—not you. And now, I’m not disappointed at all. You paid for it, didn’t you baby? You took your punishment like such a good, strong boy. It’s water under the bridge now, Pete.”

The younger man pulls back to look for the sincerity on Tony’s face. Those brown eyes he loves are warm and soft, no hint of sadness or disappointment. Tony brushes his cheek with the back of his fingers, and it’s tender and loving. On a whim, Peter kisses him, tastes the mouth he loves. When they part, he can feel Tony’s breath brush his face with his next words:

“To review, what feels better to you, kid: cumming or obeying?”

“I like when I can do both,” Peter snarks.

Tony laughs and swats him on the ass. 

-

The next morning, Tony wakes him early, holding something out in his hands. Blearily, Peter takes it, feeling smooth silicon. Drool dries at the corner of his mouth and he uses his free hand to wipe it away, blinking up at his lover.

“Wha—?” he asks.

“Sorry to wake you,” Tony says softly. “But you need to put this on before I leave.”

When his vision clears, Peter sees what Tony has handed him: a cock cage.

Peter groans, throwing an arm over his eyes as if he could pretend to still be sleeping. The chuckle Tony gives makes Peter’s cock stir. He cracks his eyes open to look. The older man is devastatingly attractive in his suit minus the jacket, the dark vest emphasizing his trim waist, the collar not yet done up.

“_Why_?” Peter whines. “How am I supposed to edge, daddy?”

“No more edging without me,” Tony says. He pauses. “Without me _conscious_.”

Peter’s face burns at Tony’s amendment. Sighing, he throws the covers aside and stands, shivering. With help from Tony, he slips the cock cage on. It is snug, large enough that he could be half-hard without restriction, but any harder and there would be discomfort. It has ventilation holes, a place for him to urinate from. And on top is a bronze lock with a key to match. There’s something sensual and intimate about putting it on. He can’t help but slip under, a little, surrendering this part of himself to Tony.

“It doesn’t pinch or hurt? At least—” Tony’s mouth twitches. “—not more than it’s supposed to?”

Peter moves his hips in a circle, walks across the room a few times, naked save for it. He shakes his head. Really, when he’s in the right position, he doesn’t even notice the cage. He’s got this in the bag. It’s cake.

“Check in, kid. Color?”

“Green,” he says. 

“If something changes while I’m gone, you let JARVIS know right away. I’m only ever a few floors away,” says Tony while he puts on his cufflinks and selects a pair of tinted glasses to match his maroon tie. Before leaving, he drops a chaste kiss on Peter’s lips. “See you at five, baby. Then we’ll take the cage off and edge together.”

Peter shivers with anticipation. “Yessir.”

-

He hates the cage.

It makes everything easier. That is—it makes obeying Tony easier. He spends the first twenty minutes of his day exploring the cage: the ventilation holes are barely the size of thumbtacks, offering him no chance for stimulus even when he presses his fingers against them and feels the soft skin of his cock. It is secure, and he makes sure of it, tugging until the pain becomes a touch past uncomfortable. Tony has probably already planned for this exploration; he knows the way Peter can’t ever help but test the ropes he’s bound in.

His phone buzzes on the couch beside him. **So what do you think?** Tony asks.

**It’s nbd**, Peter says.

**Have you gotten hard in it, yet?**

Peter blushes, shifting. **No**.

There isn’t a reply for so long that Peter abandons his phone. He’s got to watch more Clone Wars today. Ned is getting antsy wondering why it’s taking Peter so long to catch up, and Peter has no safe explanation. Most people don’t neglect their friends to play kinky games with their much older boyfriend.

Or do they…

Another text comes in, and he glances at it. Then it punches him in the gut, takes his breath away. It’s a picture message, completely innocuous by their standards: a picture of Tony’s hand resting on a table—Peter recognizes the tables from the conference rooms, so odds are that he is in a meeting. Tony’s hands are one of Peter’s favorite things about him. There’s no disguising the masculinity in them, the genius they create. There’s power in them, and that turns Peter on to no end. The landscape of veins and scars, the mountains and valleys creating by his knuckles. Peter can see the edge of Tony’s white dress shirt’s cuff peeking from beneath the dark fabric of his suit. Nothing about it is overtly sexual—

—except for the little bronze key that he holds softly between his thumb and forefinger.

His cock fills with blood so quickly that his head spins with it. Then it reaches a certain length and encounters the unyielding cage and ow. Ow. There’s no more room for him to grow, cock squished into its tiny confinements. He whines, shifting like there will be some position that will grant him relief. His balls throb. His chest tightens. Tony has the key to Peter’s cock in his hands. Literally.

**How’s that?** Tony asks.

**You’re mean,** Peter says back. He tries to think of all manners of unsavory things, but underneath it all is the undercurrent of _TonyTonyTony_.

All Tony sends back is **:)**

The rest of the day is spent trying to be productive. He watches Netflix, texts May to check in and plan lunch between them (for next week, thanks, the last thing he wants to do is sit across from his aunt at some diner in Queens feeling the ache of his cock), and even thumbs through a textbook he bought ahead of time for the upcoming semester. It’s fascinating stuff, and he relishes the thought of having something to share with Tony. Sprinkled throughout his productive periods are still chunks of time he loses when he thinks of that bronze key on Tony’s person and his cock fills and aches, no relief to be had. Peeing is a fucking irritating, too. But he knows that he deserves this after his behavior last night. In some ways, this is Tony being merciful, taking the choice out of Peter’s hands and into his more capable ones.

Peter groans, grabbing at the cage through his sweatpants to adjust it, though no position helps the discomfort he feels when his cock lengthens at the thought of Tony’s very, very capable hands.

Eventually, when reaching for his phone that he tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants, Peter brushes something hard with his fingers—a coin, maybe? But when he pulls it free, he sees it’s one of those little bronze keys. Of course there would be more than one, one for Tony to have and another for Peter to have in case an emergency arises. Peter doesn’t trust himself with it. So he puts it up on one of the bookshelves out of his reach and does his best to put it from his mind.

Tony arrives home at five, sharp. He’s properly rumpled, tie loosened, collar undone. As soon as he arrives into the apartment, he sheds his tinted glasses to tuck them into his breast pocket, and Peter is there, undoing the top button of the suit jacket so he can slip his arms beneath the silky fabric and wrap his arms around Tony’s waist.

“Hi, daddy,” Peter says, breathless. He’s already aching in his pants at the thought of the cage coming off and of the imminent edging session. Judging by the slick smirk on Tony’s face, he knows just how eager Peter is.

“Hi, Pete. How was your day?”

“Good! Wait here—” He goes to grab his textbook and they spend the next fifteen minutes standing side by side in the kitchen, book open flat on the island while Peter points out the passages that fascinated him. They discuss it while they wait for the delivery of the food Tony ordered: dinner from the little vegan place that Peter is obsessed with, even if Tony isn’t wild about it.

By the time the food arrives, Peter has softened. All of that changes once the food is spread out, Tony’s jacket discarded and sleeves rolled up, and the little bronze key appears from inside Tony’s pocket.

“Let’s get you out, kid,” Tony says. “Drop your pants.”

It feels naughty, doing it right here in the kitchen space, but Peter does as he’s told, grabbing the waistband of his sweats and pushing them down, careful not to drag against the cock cage. Tony kneels (wow, that imagery always gets Peter, a whine bursting from the back of his throat), carefully taking the cage in his hands and inserting the key into the lock. In a few moments, the cage is off, and Peter groans as his cock fills the rest of the way, unhindered for the first time today.

Tony stands and tucks Peter back into his sweatpants where his cock pushes obscenely at the fabric. The older man wraps him up in a warm but careful hug, keeping their hips apart even as Peter gently nudges his forward.

“Daddy,” Peter groans hotly into the space between Tony’s neck and shoulder. He can’t help but turn his head and press a wet kiss to the skin above his collar. There is the faintest scent of cologne, but no sharp taste of it, not even when Peter opens his mouth and sucks on the skin.

Tony hums, a warm vibration that Peter can feel in his lips and teeth and tongue where they’re marking the older man. “Dinner, Pete. Let’s eat. Okay?”

“I am eating,” Peter snarks, teeth still scraping Tony’s neck. Tony laughs. He has to forcibly separate them for any dinner to be eaten, but even that is a sensual affair. Tony eats like he does everything else, quickly and thoroughly. It isn’t sexy, it’s just eating. But the problem is that Peter finds everything Tony does sexy, even on days where he isn’t so hard that his cock aches. When he glances down at his lap, he sees the precum soaking through his sweats at the tip of his cock. He wants to rub his thumb right there—

“Peter,” Tony says firmly. The younger man’s head snaps up, face already pink. “Eat your dinner.

It isn’t until after dinner has been eaten and cleared away and the both of them are reclining together on the couch that Tony tells him to drop his sweatpants. Peter shucks his shirt while he’s at it, all his senses elevated and sensitive. The TV drones on for background noise, and Peter lets himself focus on it just a little to try to lower his arousal.

“I have something for you,” Tony murmurs lowly, running a hand along Peter’s twitching abs. “Something special that I’ve been saving for a rainy day. When you were away at school last semester and feeling lonely, I went looking online for some long-distance solutions. But everything was…lackluster at best. You know what daddy did for you, Pete?”

“Uh-uh,” Peter says. He can barely listen with the way Tony’s fingers run through the pubic hair at the base of his cock.

“Daddy made his own toy for you,” Tony whispers. Peter perks up. Tony draws Peter’s attention to the little black box waiting on the glass coffee table, the one Tony had retrieved after dinner. “You want to open your present, honey?”

“Yes, please,” Peter says. He’s still aroused—but not he’s interested, too. Tony’s genius is irrefutable, and Peter has no doubt that the man’s brainpower focused on such a sinful, sensual goal will take the younger man apart. He reaches out for the box, fingers trembling. “Can I, daddy?”

“Please, baby.”

Peter opens it, blinking at what’s inside. It isn’t familiar to him, Something vaguely cock cage-like, and if that’s Peter’s present, then he’s going to be sorely disappointed. But there is a little remote, also, and when Peter reaches out to touch the toy, it is surprisingly malleable, like a durable, clingy silk.

“Want me to put it on you, baby?” Tony asks.

Peter nods. Tony kneels between his spread legs. The first, steadying touch of a hand on his cock has him groaning, precum beading at the tip. Tony wipes it away with a tender thumb before rolling the sleeve-like toy over Peter’s shaft, down, down, until it nestles at his base. There is a knot the size of a nickel at the bottom where it rests against his balls, and he assumes that that is where the motor is. Because this thing is going to vibrate—why else would Tony have a remote for it. Peter shivers with anticipation.

Tony draws out his phone, tapping away at the screen. “Designing the app took the most time, to my surprised, but it was necessary: I want to be able to look at all your data no matter how far away I am.”

“D-Data?”

Tony hums. “You bet, baby. That little sleeve on your cock has the ability to measure your heartrate, temperature, and blood flow. Once we have the chance to play with it a bit and I have all the necessary data, I’ll be able to predict your orgasms moments before they happen, the temperature spike, the skipping heart rate, the increase in blood flow to your cute little cock. If I want to, I can cut off the vibrations like—” he snaps his fingers, and Peter’s cock twitches in the sleeve. “—which is what we’ll be practicing today.

“How’s all that sound, Pete? What’s your color, baby?”

“Green,” Peter says. “I’m ready. Turn it on?”

Tony chuckles, a dark little sound. He fingers the remote. “Sweetheart, I equipped that with the most powerful little motor I could for its size. But you’re my tough boy, aren’t you? You can take it.”

The vibrations start with no other warning. The sleeve clutches at his cock, and it feels alive, like a writhing hand clenching and releasing. Peter gasps, hips bucking to throw the thing off, but it’s attached to him. There is no squirming away from the stimulation, he can writhe all he wants, but his body will have no choice but to take it. The vibrations center heavily on that little spot where the motor rests, the ones pressed right on top of his aching balls. He already feels his orgasm rising, and Tony isn’t even looking at him, is just sitting on the floor beside the couch where Peter sprawls, his face watching his phone.

“You could have eased me into it,” Peter cries. “Why’d you start me out so high?”

Tony looks up, eyes wide. “Baby, this is me easing you into it. That’s the lowest setting.”

Peter whines, his hips thrusting off of the couch. He palms his eyes. “Tony, Tony—I’m close—”

The vibrations stop all at once, and Tony’s hands abandon his phone to scrabble for Peter’s own, pinning them up and away to stop him from reaching down and trying to jerk himself over the edge. “_Noooo_,” Peter cries. “No, no, please daddy—”

“No,” Tony says, soft and gentle.

Tears burn Peter’s eyes. “_Please_, sir? Please?”

“I said no,” Tony reminds him, touch firm but gentle. “You’re not cumming. Not today, not tomorrow, not for the rest of the week.”

Peter can’t help it: he bursts into tears. His cock hurts it’s so hard. Five more days seems like a lifetime to spend like this, a tunnel so long he can’t see the light at the other end. But when he looks at Tony’s face through the blur of his tears, he sees no mercy, just heat like flickering embers behind that dark gaze.

“Talk to me, kid. You’re crying your little heart out. Do you really hate this?”

“No,” Peter hiccups. His brain his fuzzy, the pain in his cock receding though it grows no softer. “No, daddy, I love it, I really do, I love being your good boy and I love you being in control and I love the way—the way you own me, you own everything about me, everything that belongs to me really belongs to you and I love it—”

Tony smiles, so fucking soft. He lets go of Peter’s hands and Peter doesn’t even try to touch his erection, just folds his hands together over his chest. Tony brushes at the tears, his thumb warm and rough. The only thing that would make it more perfect to Peter is to know—to see and to feel—how Tony is affected by this. If he’s affected. His eyes burn, but he otherwise is so calm where he’s seated on the floor. Peter reaches out with one hand to place it flat against Tony’s clothed abs, finding his way down by touch.

“Are you hard, daddy?” Peter asks, dazed.

Tony catches his hand and pulls it away. The older man just shrugs. “Let’s get back to edging, okay? We’ll just go a few more times, not the full thirty minutes. I don’t want to push you while you’re this far under. Color, baby?”

“Green,” Peter hums. Now that he’s stopped fighting, peace settles over him like a thick, soft fog. Or a blanket. He’s safe, in here, with his daddy watching over him and making the decisions. Peter doesn’t need to think, doesn’t need to fear. Tony is in control.

“Play with your nipples, sweetheart. I want to see how well this biofeedback works.”

Peter spreads his hands to rest them on each of his pecs, thumbing gentle at his nipples. He can feel Tony’s gaze on him, but it is distant. This he knows: touching himself feels good, and it is making the older man happy. He holds that thought in his brain and lets his hands work, teasing himself to hard, aching points and then pinching gently. His hips jerk when he does that, so he does it again and again, taking time in between to be gentle and tease himself. All the time, noises pour from his mouth, whines and high pitched breaths and little gasps. Usually, he is insecure about the sounds he makes during sex—he’s been told by past lovers that he is loud, and it can be distracting—but in this fuzzy place, he doesn’t care.

“Close,” he slurs.

Tony hums. “A little more, baby. But stop if you get real close, okay?”

“Uh-huh,” Peter says. He uses the blunt nails of his fingers to scratch softly at each of his nipples and god, it’s so good, so good—

“Stop,” Tony says.

Peter pulls his hands away to rest them on his stomach. His cock jerks, desperate, but he feels good. He feels strong. The hand petting his hair keeps him grounded, and he purrs into it. Cracking his eyes open, he glances at Tony and sees that the man is smiling. His daddy is pleased with him, and his chest feels warm like it’s liable to explode.

It’s better than cumming.

-

The next day, Tony is showing interns around the lab. It’s the one time a year he’s designated to interact with them—the rest of the 364 days, they’ll be under the watchful eyes of his head engineers. He dresses casual, his tinkering jeans and a band t-shirt. He has a revolving door of the things, though Peter is privileged enough to have seen the well-loved ones, worn with frequent use.

Peter is coming with him.

The cage isn’t discernable under his clothing, and (thankfully) it doesn’t allow him to get hard enough to sport a visible erection. He’s going to be able to enjoy the time spent with Tony around other company without worrying about his bodily functions. Hopefully, the mental stimulus will also help time pass. Just four more days, he thinks to himself, tying his tie the way May showed him all those years ago.

“Look at you,” Tony whistles from the doorway. “What a stud. I’m going to have to fire a dozen interns who check you out today, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Peter smirks. “As long as you fire the ones who look at you, too.”

“Baby, we won’t have any interns left,” Tony laments.

“Sounds like a problem for Pepper.” Tony laughs, bent-at-the-waist laughter. Peter’s face turns white. “Don’t tell her I said that!”

-

The tour is going well. There’s a woman who graduated top of her class from Yale’s science departments, and she flirts with Tony to no-end, even though the public knows that he and Peter are together, even though Peter is _right there_, watching with raised eyebrows, making faces behind her back that has Tony’s lips twitching.

There’s a man who reminds him of Ned in the way he talks, and they click in a friendly way, reminiscing about their time spent in college (NYU and MIT respectively). He talks about his family overseas and how they paid to send him away to school, and how proud he was making them to have a Stark Internship.

“You earned it, man,” Peter says. “Tony only picks the best of the best. They _should_ be proud.”

Then he hears it—the woman asking Tony, “That’s a very pretty necklace, Mr. Stark. Does it have any significance?”

Peter glances over—because Tony rarely wears jewelry besides his collection of watches, his never-ending sunglasses, etc. And there is a thin chain around Tony’s neck, and dangling down to brush against his solar plexus is a little bronze key—

“Are you okay?” The man beside him asks, putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Your face went white. Are you going to be sick?”

He has no way of knowing that Peter’s face is white because all of the blood in his body has rushed south. _Tony is wearing the key_. He’s wearing it around his neck, for everyone to see, and now he is holding it up so the woman can take a closer look at it, turning it this way and that for them to admire, and she has absolutely no idea that it’s the key to the cage that is around Mr. Stark’s boyfriend’s cock.

“Isn’t it?” Tony says to her. He smiles. “My partner gave it to me. The key to his heart, so to speak.”

“Ah. That’s sweet,” the woman responds without feeling.

“He’s a sweetheart.” Tony winks at him.

Peter wants to throttle him. With his cock, preferably.

“I’m fine,” Peter soothes the man beside him. They shake hands in parting. “I do need a drink though, I might step out—it was so nice to meet you! Maybe we could get lunch, someday. Let me give you my number.”

-

That night, Tony stands over him, Peter’s hands restrained to the headboard, but his legs left free to kick and squirm and press against the bed. On Peter’s cock is the vibrating sleeve, and Tony watches his phone with a drink in his hand, amber liquid that he sips from gratuitously. His gaze is dark. Peter wishes the man would reach down and touch himself, give any indication that this is arousing him, but when Peter glances down, he sees that the man isn’t even hard.

“I saw you giving your number out, baby,” Tony says. He turns off the vibrations—and the biofeedback must be working, because Peter’s stomach had just started to tighten, his balls drawing up in preparation for the most spectacular orgasm of his life (may it rest in peace). Tony is good at this, the way he’s good at everything he puts his mind to. It makes Peter feel so small to think that Tony is driving him this close to insanity, and he’s doing it all without a hard-on. Shame fills him before Tony speaks and brings him back to the present: “Did you like that man? You know he has a wife, overseas, right? I went through his file.”

“J-Just friends, daddy,” Peter cries, tears rolling down his cheeks. “S-Swear. I swear. _Please_ daddy.”

Tony hushes him, coming close enough to set his drink on the nightstand and place the cool hand on Peter’s feverish forehead. “I know baby, I’m sorry. You didn’t mean to make your daddy jealous, did you? See—I know that. I know you didn’t.” The most devilish expression comes over his face, lips quirking. “But you _did_. Let me just turn this back on, what do you think honey? Two more cycles? There you go. Good boy, take it for me.”

-

Peter gets no sleep.

-

In the morning, Tony wakes and rolls over to give him a kiss but finds that Peter is lying awake, eyes red, face swollen with tears.

“Yellow,” Peter mutters.

Tony throws back the sheets, scrambling for the key on the nightstand. He unlocks Peter within sixty seconds, but it isn’t why Peter safeworded in the first place, isn’t why his tears have come back with a vengeance, shaking his body. Peter’s cock is soft, and while it thickens in interest of its increased surroundings, it doesn’t harden.

“What is it, Peter?” Tony asks, face twisted in panic, his hands flutter over Peter’s body, looking for an injury that isn’t there.

Peter just shakes his head, reaching with desperate arms for a hug. Tony grabs him and lays them side by side, pressed chest to chest with each other, the pressure firm enough that he feels the older man’s calmer, exaggerated breaths. Peter does his best to match them until his heart rate slows, cries dying down to hiccups and sniffles.

“Can you talk to me, Pete?” Tony murmurs, kissing his temple softly. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Peter does his best. He feels unbearably vulnerable, a stuttering mess, but for Tony he tries to explain: the humiliation he’s started to feel at Tony’s lack of arousal, the lack of satisfaction he’s receiving from their play time because of it.

“I’m not having fun if you’re not having fun,” Peter says, throat raw from his crying. “If this isn’t turning you on, then I don’t want to do it anymore.”

Tony pulls back. His eyebrows are raised, eyes wide with incredulity so potent it’s nearly comical. “Peter. I’m confused. _Why_ do you think I’m not enjoying this?”

Peter’s face burns. He waves a vague hand towards Tony’s cock. “Because—because. You don’t get. _Hard_.”

“_Ye-ah?_ I can’t.”

“What are you talking about,” Peter huffs. “You promised we wouldn’t have to deal with erectile dysfunction for another few years—”

“Jesus,” Tony laughs. “That’s not what I meant. Peter. I’m in a cage too, you can’t just expect me to bore a hole through it.”

Peter blinks. That string of words together just doesn’t make sense to him. Then Tony shifts, hands going down to the boxers he’s wearing, lifting his hips so that he can tuck them down—and yes. He’s wearing a cage that matches Peters, the slick silicon exterior, the little bronze lock on top. Peter gapes, feeling very much like a fish. “I—_what_? Why?”

“It didn’t seem fair. I thought it’d be easier for you to get through this week if you didn’t have to worry about my cock poking you every time we hug,” Tony snarks.

“But—”

“I gave you my key, kid. What did you think that was?”

It hits him: the key that he found in his sweatpants on the first day Tony put him in the cage. His face burns. “I hid that key. I thought it was, like, a double. For mine. I thought you were testing me—”

Tony laughs. “I hope to God you know where you put it, kid. Because otherwise we’re going to be cutting this thing off of me ourselves down in the lab—there is no chance my cock and I are going to the emergency room.”

Peter goes to get it, just to assure Tony that he hasn’t lost it, and so that he can hold it between his fingers, run the pad of his thumb along the teeth of it. He’s holding the key to Tony’s cock cage in his hand. Tony Stark’s cock cage. He starts laughing; it can’t be helped. Then he crawls back onto the bed, wincing when the cage pinches a little. He reaches for the bronze key on Tony’s cage.

“What are you doing, baby?” Tony asks.

“I don’t want you to wear one.” Peter stops though, hovering over the lock, fingers trembling a little. He looks up at Tony from beneath his lashes, trying to assess the man’s expression. “Is that okay, daddy? I think I’ll feel better if I know I’m not the only one suffering. Also—I’d really like to suck you off.”

Tony exhales a little laugh. He lays back onto the pillows and puts both hands behind his head. “Go ahead then, Pete. Jesus, what, am I going to say, no?”

-

It all feels a little more bearable, with Tony’s cum in his stomach. Peter lounges around the apartment completely naked—let JARVIS get an eyeful, who cares. It’s so sensual, the air on his exposed skin, the vaguely naughty feeling he has even just laying on the couch, a hand rubbing his abdominals absently. He falls asleep that way, sleeping through two episodes of his show before Netflix pauses it for him, and when he wakes up, Tony is standing over him, expression tense and dark.

“Tony?” Peter slurs, wiping the drool from his mouth. “Wha’s wrong?”

Tony drops to his knees, tangles his fingers into Peter’s hand and wrenches the boy closer so that they can kiss. It’s filthy, hard, teeth clicking together. Tony sucks on his tongue and then fucks Peter’s mouth with his own, and the kid can hardly keep up, just keeps his mouth lax and takes it, groaning, sucking when he has the chance. His cock aches, reaching the end of its limit in the cage.

“Tony,” he gasps when they part, but the man doesn’t even let him speak, mouth sucking at his bottom lip, scraping it with his teeth.

“Thought of you all day,” Tony says. His voice is liquid smoke, and Peter is what’s burning. “Spent the whole day hard behind my desk, couldn’t even stand up to greet people, baby. Thinking of you home, cute little cage on, being so good for me. And then I get home and find you spread out and naked? It’s too much for me, baby. Do you think I’m a saint?”

“Don’t want a saint,” Peter gasps, clutching at Tony’s hair when the man moves his mouth down Peter’s bare throat to his exposed chest, sucking at a protruding collar bone. “Please, daddy.”

Tony groans. When he speaks, his lips brush Peter’s skin, the breath cool against where Tony’s mouth has been: “Please, what, baby? What do you want?”

“To cum,” Peter says. He feels so sensual—has all day, spending so much time just in his own skin—and so he rakes a hand down his chest, toys at one pink nipple with his thumb. “Please, daddy, can I cum?”

“No,” Tony says. “Two more days, baby. Then I’m going to make you cum so many times, I’m going to wring that little cock dry. No mercy.”

“Don’t want it,” Peter says. “Not if you don’t want to give it to me, daddy.”

Tony groans. He pulls himself away, crawls in his designer suit across the floor to the armchair where he lounges in it looking like absolute sin: suit rumpled, tie loose and disheveled, pants tenses obscenely. He points down to his cock. “Suck me, Pete. You wanted to see me get hard? You’re going to see me cum, too.”

“Yessir,” Peter breaths, sliding off the couch himself. He mimics Tony, crawling across the floor. His hips sway naturally with his gait, the sensuality in him, the power he feels at arousing this man so potent that Peter feels high with it. When he reaches Tony, he kneels up and presses his mouth to the hard bulge beneath the fabric, tonguing at it. Tony’s legs jump. Peter spends his time there, soaking the finely woven Italian wool, sucking where he thinks the head is and gently mouthing where he feels the warmth of Tony’s balls. The man sits above him, breathing heavily, patient and letting Peter have his fun.

Finally, Peter pulls away to undo the belt. He loves the sound of it as it comes free from the loops, the clang the buckle makes as he tosses it behind himself carefully. The button comes next, and the zipper, revealing Tony’s silk undergarments, faintly damp with Peter’s saliva. He nuzzles at the cock through the silk but is too desperate to tease for long. He wants his mouth on Tony, ASAP.

Jerking the boxers down, Tony’s cock springs free, a long, thick thing that Peter fixates on every time he sees it. His mouth waters, so he swallows. Above him, Tony laughs gently, reaching out a hand to rest on Peter’s head, nudging him downwards. “Go on, baby. You did this to me. Take care of it.”

Peter sucks at the head, tonguing the slit as the taste of precum bursts along his tongue. It’s only been nine hours, but God Peter had missed it. There’s no patience in him; he takes Tony as deep as he can, hollowing his mouth to suck. Tony groans, tangling his fingers in Peter’s hand to begin to coax him up and down and up and down.

“Good, Pete,” Tony says. “You’re so good for me. Fuck, kid, just like that. You always know just what I need, don’t you?”

Peter whines out an answer around the cock in his mouth. He takes a deep breath—and at the sound of it, Tony lets his head fall back, a Pavlovian response because he knows what’s coming—and then Peter presses forward, taking Tony as far back as he can and then into his throat. He can’t deepthroat the man completely, probably never will, but Peter knows that the warm, constricting wetness around the head of Tony’s cock sends him over the edge easily enough. Peter swallows, swallows, working hard not to gag. His head gets light from lack of air and it has him whimpering, hips thrusting even though his cock is confined.

When he pulls off, gasping, Tony is breathing like he’s run a marathon. Peter takes a breath to mouth at the man’s balls, a hand coming up to stroke his shaft while Peter plays elsewhere.

“Wont take long,” Tony warns, like Peter doesn’t already know, can’t feel the imminent orgasm in the man’s tightening balls.

Peter pulls back to take the cock into his mouth again, the fresh precum making him groan. He inhales again, and there goes Tony’s head drifting back, mouth open, finger tightening in Peter’s hair, and then Peter is pushing his mouth down and down and down, cock nudging that tight sleeve at the back of Peter’s throat. He makes himself gag.

Tony shouts, fingers clenching down, pulling Peter back so the cum goes into his mouth and not down the kid’s throat, choking him. Peter groans, swallowing, one hand milking Tony’s cock into his mouth. After a few long moments, Tony’s cock stops its twitching, so Peter resorts to licking it clean, tonguing along the vein that runs down the bottom where a bead of cum had escaped Peter’s mouth.

“I’ve seen Heaven,” Tony mutters, staring up into the ceiling. “I think I just had a religious experience.”

-

The next day when he wakes, Tony is already gone. There’s a meeting in Miami, and odds are that he’s already more than halfway there on the private jet. On the end table beside the bed is a little bronze key resting on a post-it note.

The note says: **take it off, kid. I trust you. Tomorrow.**

-

“This is no fair, daddy,” Peter mutters into his cellphone. “I was hoping that you’d be here tonight so we could sleep together—”

“What, so you could wake me up at midnight and ask for me to get you off?” Tony laughs. Peter’s face turns red. Thankfully, Tony can’t see it—but knowing the man, he probably already suspects. “You’ll have to be patient, Pete. I’ll be home at noon tomorrow, which will give us plenty of time for both of us to be rested.”

“What hotel are you at?” Peter asks, trying to take his mind off his aching cock—the blue balls are fantastic, thanks for asking.

“The Four Seasons.”

“Is it nice?”

“I’ll send some pictures. It’s no Stark Tower, though.”

“So modest,” Peter says, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t even joke; modesty has never been in my blood, kid.”

They say their goodnights and hang up. A few minutes later, the pictures come through, and even though he scours each one, they are just of the hotel room—a modern, luxurious thing. The tub is wild, though, and there are so many ways Peter and Tony could have fun with it, if they were there together. After the pictures comes a message: **last night, baby. Wear the cage to bed. See you tomorrow xo**

But how is Peter supposed to sleep, feeling like a kid before Christmas?

-

Peter wakes a little before dawn after a poor attempt at sleep. Sometime in the night, he missed a message from Tony—a _video_ message. His cock is straining at the cage before he even opens it, because it’s Tony, he knows Tony, knows the sort of things the older man would do to torture him.

Sure enough, it’s taken in the dead of night—the time stamp from the text says it was sent just after three in the morning. The camera is shaky for a moment and then it focuses: the room is dim, bathroom light on and the door half-open to let light into the bedroom. When the camera adjusts, Peter can see Tony’s cock, dark and flushed in the dim lighting. Tony films from his vantage point, his hand leisurely working himself. It’s slick. He must have taken lube with him, must have planned this.

“Sorry, kid,” Tony says, voice breathy and wrecked. “I couldn’t wait. Thinking about you in New York wearing that cage for me, such a good fucking boy. Been looking for an excuse to cage you for ages. Jesus, it drives me up the wall—I—I can’t—_fuck_—”

Tony cums, cock spurting, slicking down over his fingers. The noises Tony’s makes have Peter whining in his bed, shaking. Tony reaches for a towel beside him to clean himself off, and the last audio is him saying to the camera, “See you soon, Pete. Just a few more hours, baby. Be good for me.”

Be good for me. Peter takes a deep breath and holds it in his lungs until his chest aches, letting it out slow. He can be good for Tony. He _will_ be good for Tony.

So, he rolls out of bed, dresses himself, and starts his day. The longest, blandest day of his life. He exists in a near constant state of arousal, and if he weren’t due to cum in 8 hours (then six hours, then four and two hours left!), he might safeword. Surely it can’t be healthy.

Tony arrives home an hour before he is scheduled to. He has already started undressing himself in the elevator, suit jacket off and over his arm, belt undone and hanging loosely at either side of his cock, which is hard and straining at the front of his pants. Peter’s cock throbs angrily in the cage. Poor thing doesn’t know how all its hard work is about to pay off.

“Sit,” Tony says, pointing to the floor by his feet. Peter obeys immediately, knees thudding from how hard he drops. He crawls the last few feet there, and sits on his heels, shifting when the cage pinches, watching Tony finish undressing.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” Tony says, unlacing his shoes. “We’re going to go into the bedroom, and I’m going to reward you for your feat this week. I’m going to strip you down, take the cage off of you, and rub every inch of your body. I’m going to slick up my fingers and work you open, avoiding that little spot inside you that makes you see stars. And when you’re ready—alright, yes, I see that look you’re giving me—when I’m ready, I’m going to milk it for all it’s worth. You still will not cum until I say so, but once I give you permission, I will want you to cum as many times as you like. Do you understand all of that?”

“Yessir,” Peter says.

“Color?” Tony asks, completely naked except for his watch. He takes that off too.

“Blue.”

Tony stops, raising his eyebrows. “What?”

“Blue, sir,” Peter says, mouth twitching. “Like my balls.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Checking in isn’t a joke, Peter. You’re about to lose my mercy, kid. Color?”

“Green.”

“Bedroom, now. Strip along the way.”

Peter does, nearly tangling his legs in his pants and falling over. He’s naked in three seconds flat, thanks, practice makes perfect after all, and his eagerness and adrenalin fuels him. He lays on the bed, breathing heavily, closing his eyes and trying to relax himself. It’s useless, because as soon as he feels the bed dip to tell that Tony is behind him, Peter’s heart rate doubles.

A cap opens. “You just relax, Peter. Okay? Let me know if anything hurts.”

The first touch of Tony’s hands is slick and warm, taking Peter’s hand in his own to massage the palm and the fingers, ones that ache after so many notes taken during the semester, or too much time holding a screwdriver down in the lab. He works his way up Peter’s body, tender and patient. The whole time, he mutters praise that makes Peter’s toes curl, dirty, sweet things: _such a good boy, Peter, you deserve this, so fucking pretty, aren’t you? And so strong for me, not touching your little cock yesterday even though you had the key. I bet it didn’t even tempt you, baby, because you know daddy makes you feel best, doesn’t he? That’s it, Pete, relax into it._

Tony finds spots on Peter’s body that he didn’t even know ached, tender muscles in his back and thighs. He presses a soft, chaste kiss to every limb he finishes, leaves a trail of them down Peter’s spine, and at last every part of him is relaxed and oiled and soft and fragrant—except for his cock.

“I’m going to take the cage off now. Color?”

“Green,” Peter hums, lulled into a deep state of relaxation.

“Remember, no cumming until I give you permission, okay sweet boy?”

“Yessir.”

He feels the cage being lifted, moving as Tony inserts the little bronze key and turns it. As soon as it comes off, Peter groans, his cock lengthening fully.

“Look at you baby,” Tony says, a soft hand rubbing back and forth on Peter’s thigh. “Your little cock is almost purple, and your balls look so heavy and full. You’ve really been suffering, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Does it hurt, Pete?”

“My—my—” Peter’s face is red. He reaches down gently, maneuvers Tony’s hand down towards his balls.

Tony tsks, his face twisted in mocking sympathy. He reaches out to put more of the massage oil on his hands. “I’m going to touch you now, baby. Okay?”

Peter’s head nearly comes loose from how emphatically he nods. Tony just laughs at him, and then there is a warm, firm hand cupping his balls. The noise Peter makes is indecent, his whole body jolting. Tony hushes him, and Peter does his best to relax even though the touch aches as much as it feels good, the way rubbing a sore muscles does. Tony treats him like he’s precious, like he’s gold, rubbing him so tenderly. A constant stream of groans and cries flood from Peter’s mouth and he can’t help it, not even if he tried.

The ache never really disappears, but it does lessen, even as his cock feels impossibly hard, leaking profusely. Tony runs a single finger up from the base to the tip, just the barest brush against his tip. Peter cries out, hips jerking.

“Almost there,” Tony murmurs. “You’re doing so good baby. Bend your legs up. Can you hold them for me? Daddy wants to see your hole.”

Peter does as he’s told. At least now he can hold on to something, dig his fingers into the muscles of his thighs. Tony plants one hand on the back of his leg, rubbing and soothing him the way he might a feral animal, and Peter feels like one, half-mad with the need to cum.

“Try to relax.” Then there is a blunt pressure at his hole, Tony’s warm, lubed thumb, and Peter keens, cock jumping between his legs and letting loose another drop of precum. It joins the others that are dripping onto his belly.

“_Dad-dy_,” Peter groans, shaking. “Daddy, I’m—I’ll—”

“Shh,” Tony soothes. “It’s okay baby. Just relax your muscles. Focus on that, okay? You’re doing so well. I know it feels good, doesn’t it?”

“_So_ good,” whines Peter. He shivers, muscles tensing and relaxing. His teeth are chattering with it, he wants it so bad. “Tony—yellow—I don’t know—I don’t know if I can help it. I don’t want to, want to disappoint you—”

“Thank you for telling me. How does this sound: give it your best effort, and if you can’t hold back, then I won’t hold it against you.”

“You—you won’t ruin it?”

“No, I won’t ruin your orgasm Pete. Whether you cum by accident or not. You’ve done so well, honey, so well. I’m very proud of how you pushed your boundaries and respected your own limits.”

“Thank you,” Peter chants, eyes closing in relief. “Thank you, _thank_ you daddy.”

“I’m going to keep going, if you say so. Green?”

“Green.”

Tony presses forward again, thumb rubbing insistently at the hole that neither of them have played with all week. The older man can probably feel every clench of Peter’s muscles, the anxious way he tries to relax himself and fails. Then, firmly, he presses in. Peter groans, bearing down to help its way. Lovingly, Tony rubs at Peter’s rim, massaging it, coaxing it to relax.

“More, please,” Peter whispers. Tears are in his eyes, falling when he blinks them free. “Please, Tony? I can take it—”

“Patience, sweetheart, I don’t want to hurt you.” But he pulls out his thumb and lets his finger take over, pressing deep and slow until he is in to the knuckle. Peter shakes like a leaf in the wind, his mouth open. Tony does his best to avoid the kid’s prostate, but it’s not always easy when he’s flying blind, so to speak—

The first accidental brush of Tony’s finger against his prostate makes Peter cum. He shrieks, cum spurting nearly up to his neck. Tony uses his other hand to reach out and wrap around Peter’s tender cock to provide friction and lets the other seek out that spot inside him and rub against it firmly. Peter nearly whites out, throat constricting until no more sound will come out as the pleasure in him crests. The load of cum is massive, an inordinate amount that slicks him from his nipples to his belly button, and still Tony works him through it until he’s shivering, wrecked and hiccupping.

He loses no stiffness before he feels his orgasm building again, a thin dribbling stream of cum leaking from his cock because of the way Tony keeps rubbing at his prostate. Peter mutters under his breath _don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop_, and he can’t hold the words back no matter how he tries. Tony said that once he received permission, he was free to cum as many times as he wanted, so at least he doesn’t have to try to deny himself. It still feels unreal, pleasure to the point of pain building in his gut and balls, and never in his life will he have cum twice in a row like this, but he feels it—feels it—

The second orgasm is longer, deeper, and more satisfying. It shakes him to his core, body spasming from head to toe. Tony has to physically lean his weight against Peter to keep him still. Time slips a little because when he comes to, Tony is kneeling between his legs having pried them free from Peter’s grip.

“You with me, honey?”

Peter gurgles something. Tony sits back on his heels, relaxing from where he was preparing to fuck Peter. He maintains the connection between them, rubbing tenderly at Peter’s shivering thighs while talking to him. It takes a few long minutes for Peter’s brain to feel less fuzzy, for him to be able to blink away the dust from his eyes.

“Tony?” he asks groggily.

“Right here, kid. Are you okay?”

Peter groans. He holds up a thumbs-up but his trembling arm belies it.

“Need to break, baby?”

“Just for—can I get some water?”

Tony has bottles waiting beside the bed. He is the most thoughtful, mentally present lover Peter has ever had, and in his sensitive state, the thought brings him to tears. He cries even while Tony helps hold the bottle steady so he can sip from it. Pushing it away, he croaks out the words, I love you, but Tony just smiles and moves the bottle forward again, insisting.

“Better?” he asks when the bottle is half-empty.

“Much,” Peter sighs. His throat isn’t so raw—had he been screaming? He can’t remember. His body still tingles, thighs on the verge of cramping. But his cock is only half-hard and his balls don’t ache with the fullness of an orgasm a week in coming. “I love you,” Peter says again.

“I love you too, kid. Why don’t we call that the scene for the night?”

Peter gasps, a hand clutching at his chest. “And deny me the pleasure of your cock Mr. Stark? Perish the thought. Onwards, sir—"

“Okay, stop right there,” Tony says laughing. He palms at Peter’s stomach where the cum is still wet and uses it to slick his cock. The younger man’s legs are still shaking, so instead of bending them back, knees to chest, he just parts them wide, letting them rest out soft and relaxed as butterfly wings. Tony helps put a pillow under his hips, and by the way he trembles, Peter knows that he is wrecked, that there is no way he will be able to participate in this fuck. He’s just going to have to lay back and look pretty and take it.

The thought has his cock taking interest. Tony presses the blunt head of his cock at Peter’s entrance and—after checking in for his color—begins to press forward. Peter bears down to help, and the moment when Tony’s head slips through, muscles giving under his persistence, Peter groans long and low. Tony rests there, breathing, letting his younger lover get used to the sensation. Then he pulls back so the head pops free before pressing back in, this time an inch deeper. He continues on that way, cock dragging at Peter’s tender rim, until his abs brush Peter’s balls with each long, slow thrust.

Inside him, his prostate is tender. He jerks with every thrust that brushes over it.

“Can you take it, Pete,” Tony asks, face tense with pleasure and the effort it takes to keep from thrusting into the younger man. “Too sensitive? No—I can see it on your face. You’re sensitive, maybe it even hurts, huh? But you like it. There you go, baby, close your eyes if you need to. You can’t get away from it, can’t you? Poor overwhelmed sweetheart.”

“Tony,” Peter groans, drawing the man’s name out obscenely. Tony always gets like this when he’s very turned on, vocal and rambling and so fucking hot. “Don’t stop. Please.”

“I won’t,” Tony says. He shifts up more onto his knees, pushing and pulling Peter into the position he wants him in. This way, he gets better leverage, can pull the kid down onto his cock. Peter is glad that his eyes have cracked open to see Tony’s face, wrecked from the tight pressure around his cock. Peter clenches down, and Tony’s head tips back the way it does when Peter deepthroats him: neck bare, mouth open in a silent gasp.

“God you’re beautiful,” Peter slurs.

Tony laughs, eyes still closed. “If you can still see, then I’m not fucking you well enough.”

Now it’s Peter’s turn to laugh, and something about it must have him clenching down on Tony’s cock more because the man’s thrusts stutter as he groans, fingers digging tender spots on Peter’s hips.

“C’mon daddy,” Peter says. He reaches down to grip his cock, and God he’s missed having it in his hand. Fucking himself lazily, Peter lets the rest of his body go lax. “Cum in me. Didn’t I earn it, daddy?”

“You did,” Tony groans. “You did, Peter. Take it baby—take it—”

The noises Tony makes when he cums are music to Peter’s ears, the initial gasp, like the pleasure surprises him, and then the long groan of relief. Peter manages to cum himself, though it doesn’t hold a candle to his second or first orgasm. It’s soft, sweet, like sinking into a warm bath.

Tony collapses next to him. The sheets are a mess of sweat and cum, but they aren’t any different. “What do you think?” Tony asks softly, reaching out a hand to find Peter’s and tangle their fingers. “Did you like it? The whole week. Something we should do again, or table?”

“It was…a good idea.”

Tony hums, and just by his voice Peter can tell that he’s smiling. “I’m glad to have had one in my life, at least.”

As the exertion wears off, heart rate slows, Peter shivers in the air conditioning. He reaches out and pats at Tony’s arm. “Go get me a blanket,” he says.

“Fuck no,” Tony snorts. “We shower first. Then change the sheets. Then blanket.”

When Peter shifts and the cum drying on his stomach pulls at the hairs there, he winces. A shower is starting to sound not so bad. Maybe a necessity. “Okay,” he says, eyes drifting shut. He can’t stop smiling. “Maybe you’ve had _two_ good ideas.”

Tony squeezes his hand tenderly, thumb rubbing where a wedding ring would be. Will be, if he has anything to say about it. “_Maybe_ three.”

“Don’t push it.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments and criticisms welcome. talk to me on tumblr: cagestark


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